Romance In A Column

chapter one,

Sometimes it feels as if, eleven months ago today, she had signed her soul away.

An opportunity like plump, red apple whose citric flavor she could taste before taking a bite had been dangled in front of her. The advisor at the career center murmured in her ear just how perfect it would be, making it tantalizing to the point the temptation was mouth watering. The loopy cursive which had taken the entirety of her middle school career to perfect, imprinted atop of a 'sign here' line on irreversible, black ink.

Just like Eve in the religious metaphor, Eryn had caved. And while Eve's apple sealed her fate away, Eryn's signature enslaved her every waking hour, guised under a nine to five" job" which rarely, if ever, came to its end at five. Yet Eve's story recounts the first—of many—human errors and Eryn doesn't entirely feel as if her year long internship is an error.

Honestly, it depends on the day, yet that's not to say it's on a fixed schedule. There's no certainty that a Thursday will consist of coffee stains on her desk that outline the bottom of her cups while she proofreads an article already revised by editors as a safety measure. Of a pristine shirt after since not a single droplet of coffee taints it during the coffee runs she's tasked with, where with shaky arms she carries the obscene amount of orders of her superiors, for they conform to the espresso machine in the break room. Of enough time in her hands to run the battery of her phone dry.

However there's no guarantee either a Thursday won't entail tired green eyes that stop registering the research miscellaneous journalists of Let's Be Honest request for their articles. Blistered feet and reconsidering ever again accompanying an outfit with heels as Eryn plays pigeon for writers, editors and design teams. A stirred brain product to transcribing eternity-long interviews, polluted with external sounds that difficult the task at hand, until the office becomes a dimly illuminated ghost town with the view of the concrete jungle mainstream media refers New York City as.

As of lately, with the steady growth of Wyetta Jeff's digital publication, the latter sort of days have become more frequent.

Her footsteps, a steady sound that accompanied Eryn in the trek home from Midtown, Manhattan disappear as she steps out of her shoes and further into the apartment. Her fingers curl at the initial contact with the wooden slabs, so she rises to her tippy toes.

Illuminating the small space in yellow hues with a flick of the doorside switch and expertly maneuvers past the furniture in her makeshift living room, towards the wall opposite to the entrance where the radiator is at. Momentarily pausing behind her navy blue couch, she inches her purse from her shoulder, letting the bag filled with necessities and dispensables fall limply.

She crouches down, turning on the valve before turning on the balls of her feet. Eryn crosses a short distance and finally indulges in a moment to daydream about falling backside-first onto her single bed, the white duvet rumples under her weight. It had never been a more rewarding experience, but a twelve-hour work day tends to do that to a person.

The reality is that just like there isn't a schedule, there aren't omens to tiresome days at the office. Take, for example, today where, after beating the sun to rising, she managed to cook nothing short of a gourmet meal. An anomaly, since she depends mostly on protein bars alike yogurts for the sake of punctuality.

There had been a lull in the constant sounds that pollutes her mornings. The honks product of traffic and the city awakening—a scene portrayed by children alike parents' voices traveling through the walls of the building—seemed drowned by the softly playing Rhythm and Soul playlist her co-worker had composed for her laced with Eryn's own mumbles and hums.

It had been the perfect start to an otherwise horrible day.

Once the temperature inside her apartment becomes bearable, Eryn exhales, draping her forearm atop of her close eyes for an instance.